


Zombie, Interrupted

by TheYmp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, Homage, M/M, Night of the Living Dead, Season/Series 07, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYmp/pseuds/TheYmp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby sends the Winchesters to investigate strange sightings at the Evans City cemetery as a favor for an old friend. "Zombie? There's no such thing," thought Dean.</p><p>Set during an off-canon version of season 7 (i.e. 7.10 Death's Door has ended completely differently). An homage to 'Night of the Living Dead'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters - these were created by Eric Kripke - I'm just borrowing them. I'm not making any commercial gain. No harm or infringement intended.

** Zombie, Interrupted **

**_Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead._ **

**_Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast._ **

**_For, behold, the LORD cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain._ **

**\- Isaiah 26:19-21 (KJV)**

~#~

** Chapter One **

Dean was skating, the silver blades flicking through the ice so fast it felt like he was almost flying across the frozen river. By some strange means he knew he was dreaming, but he had no control over events, nor any desire to try to change them. He'd never skated in real life and found it was actually kind of awesome. There was a feeling of time passing and he became aware that there was someone up ahead, someone who had been there for a while without Dean being aware of him. Dean tried to catch up to the familiar-looking figure, but he soon discovered that, no matter how fast he skated, he just couldn't seem to reach him.

There was a sudden loud cracking sound followed by a horrified cry of alarm as the figure fell through the ice. Dean sped ahead at breakneck speed, but he could see that the person had been pulled under the ice and was actually being dragged towards him by the underwater current.

Dean threw himself down on the frozen lake so that he and the stranger were at the same point, banging on opposite sides of the ice, unable to break through to each other. The ice seemed to become transparent until it was more like glass and with a shock Dean realized that it was Castiel.

He pounded his fists harder and faster on the clear ice. "I'll save you," he yelled and then suddenly, somehow, their positions were reversed and it was Dean under the ice and whose lungs were burning through lack of oxygen.

Starting to panic, he was unable to stop himself from sinking deeper into the brackish water, the light around him fading so fast that the only thing he could see was the angel staring back at him with a horrified expression.

"Cas!"

Sam shook him awake. "Dude, you okay? You're just having a dream."

Dean scooted up in the passenger seat like a scalded cat. He felt disorientated and not being in his beloved Impala only added to his level of discomfort. "Yeah, I'm fine," he sighed, as he struggled to process their surroundings. "Where are we?"

"Just pulling up to the hospital now," Sam answered.

"You should have left him to it," drawled Lucifer in a bored tone as he inspected his nails from the comfort of his reclined position in the backseat of both the car and Sam's mind. "I reckon he was enjoying the reunion."

~#~

It was with some slight embarrassment that Bobby had asked to be discharged from hospital into the care of Sheriff Jodie Mills. Dean had expressed surprise at what he saw as a sudden change in Bobby and he'd queried what he complained was out of character behavior.

Sam tried his best to reassure his brother who he suspected felt slighted, but then he had always been the better observer of human behavior. He'd had to be, from an early age he'd needed to be well versed in the unspoken rules and language that passed for communication in the Winchester household.

Dean might only have eyes for his younger brother, sacrificing his childhood on an altar of weird eternal servitude, but Sammy had never felt such a compulsion. If anything, he'd always suspected that Dad had forced Dean to adopt a mothering role, then resented him for trying to replace his wife in raising Sam.

What this meant was that it was not a trivial matter that both Winchesters looked to Bobby as far more than a father figure. So, when he asked for a favor, there was no way in Hell (and they knew more than anyone what that really meant) that they were going to say no.

Bobby tried and failed to push himself up into a sitting position in his hospital bed. Without his usual baseball cap, he looked unusually small and vulnerable, although this false impression was blown away the minute he opened his mouth. He passed them the details of that rarity-of-rarities, a retired hunter, a man in his mid-seventies, by the name of Ben Jones, based in Pennsylvania.

"Listen, this guy is a friend from way, _way_ back. If there's anything you can do, then I'd appreciate it, y'understand?" grouched the elder hunter, feeling awkward to be back in his wheelchair-dependent days again.

"No problem, Bobby," Dean answered. Although not always without their own brand of petty antagonisms, hunters tended to have fewer, but much closer friendships than the rest of the populace. There was just something about knowing that what went bump in the night was real to appreciate a brother, or sister, in arms. Combined with the strict etiquette of give and take in the hunting world, with all they owed Bobby they were more than happy to take on his debt to someone who'd once done him a solid.

Sam had often declared that hunters would make an excellent, rich sociological sub-culture study. Contrarily, Dean found that concentrated, silent staring put such foolish ideas out of the minds of the "over-educated and _under-wise_ _"_. And Dean knew how to stare, he'd studied under angelic tutelage.

So it was without too much thought or complaint that the brothers agreed to investigates the strange sightings in and around the cemetery in Evans City.

From the straightforward description, Sam had suspected that this was more a ploy on Bobby's part to avoid Dean's overbearing mothering in place of something a little more carnal from the good Sheriff, and he may have made a sly mention of that while his brother was out of the room. If Lucifer had laughed in appreciation at the joke from where he was trying to change the TV channel using just the power of his mind, Sam wouldn't know, he'd been practicing ignoring the hallucination.

Choking on his jello, Bobby went to pains to point out that it would give them some time to avoid the Leviathans, and - as Dean returned in triumph from his battle with the vending machines - he promised to do his best to continue the research in their absence.

"Just promise me you'll both try to stay outta trouble for once, ya idjits." Bobby grumbled.

~#~

Sam and Dean made the journey across country and by splitting the driving managed to make the trip in just under a day and a half, and probably would have been much faster if they hadn't had to stop for a flat outside of Port Wayne, making Dean decry the lack of the Impala. It really was like losing a close friend.

When they arrived at Ben Jones' house they were surprised to find that it was in a nice part of town, not in keeping with the usual down-at-heel surroundings they normally associated with hunters.

They walked to the door, feeling slightly out of place and knocked. Within seconds an attractive black woman in her mid-twenties answered the door. "Yes?" she asked in suspicious tones, looking them up and down.

Dean gave his widest smile, and sucked in a breath...

"Listen, whatever you're selling, we're not buying," she answered, shooting him down in flames.

Sam laughed at Dean's distraught expression. "We're looking for Ben Jones. We were sent by Bobby Singer."

Without a flicker of expression she threw water into Sam's face. When Dean chuckled, she threw some in his face as well.

"Ooh, I'm melting, I'm melting!" Lucifer cackled in amusement, only to roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation at Sam's lack of attention.

"Hold this," she ordered handing them each a silver shotgun cartridge. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and studied them for a moment through the in-built camera, before taking back the shells. "Okay, follow me," she instructed.

The brothers shrugged at each other, but followed her into the house, noting the well-kept line of salt and the devil's trap across the doorway.

They were led to an elderly man, with snow-white hair, sitting with an ornate silver-tipped cane by his side. He appeared to be thoroughly engrossed in his reading, surrounded by stacks of books, but looked up and noticed their wet clothing as they approached. "You'll have to forgive my granddaughter, Barbra; she tends to be very protective."

"She was very... thorough," answered Sam.

"Thank you, I taught her everything I know," he said, nodding to her, and she visibly relaxed.

"A lax hunter is a dead hunter, Grandpa," Barbra said in the tone of one reciting an oft repeated lesson and laughed, at last showing a hint of emotion.

Lucifer pulled a face and snorted in derision.

As he spoke with his granddaughter, Ben's face was lit up with a warm smile that only faded when he turned back to the brothers and settled down to business. Under the old man's scrutiny, Sam had the strange urge to stand a little taller and straighten the tie that he wasn't even wearing.

"Forgive me if I don't rise and shake your hand, my arthritis is very bad today," he apologized with a rueful look, holding up hands badly twisted with age. "So, you're the Winchesters. I've heard a lot about you."

"Unfortunately, most of it's probably true," grumbled Dean under his breath.

"Well, Bobby Singer speaks very highly of you."

Dean bristled at the tone that seemed to say "But I don't see it myself."

"So tell us what the problem is," asked Sam, detecting Dean's irritation and cutting in before his brother could say something rude.

"I've lived here all my life, and there have always been strange tales about the cemetery. I've heard talk of odd lights and noises, but other than the occasional salt and burn, my own investigations have never turned up anything unusual.

"But recently there have been an increase in the number of reports of missing pets, and a rash of teenage disappearances. Well, you know young people these days, I'm sure, but then a few days ago two of the missing teenagers were found _partially eaten_. Of course, the official story is an animal attack."

"So what do you think this could be?" asked Sam.

"I really have no idea, but it all seems to be centered on the cemetery. EMF is off the scale, which leads me to believe it isn't ghouls or shifters, besides which it seems too sloppy. But I don't think it's spirits either – they wouldn't be centered on the burial site.

"Hmm, it's too urban for wendigo. Any blood loss? Could it be vampires?"

" _Vampires_?" The skepticism was clear in Ben's voice as he and Barbra shared a glance. _Are these jokers for real?_

"Yeah, they've had a bit a revival recently, and not the sparkly kind," shuddered Dean, the thought too close for comfort.

Barbra frowned. "Really? Maybe you can fill me in later." She gritted her teeth at Dean's leering grin at the _double entendre_ and concentrated on Sam instead. "Perhaps it's best if you look for yourself with an open mind."

"Good idea, Barbra," interjected Ben, "it's all just wild conjecture at this point. In the meantime, please show these gentlemen to the guest room so they can get settled in."

"Of course, Grandfather," Barbra answered demurely, showing the brothers out.

Once out of the room her manner changed. "I'm coming with you," she insisted, her tone brooking no argument.

"Oh, and what'll Gramps have to say about that?" teased Dean.

"My grandfather can be quite old-fashioned, and he has some funny ideas about women. But I know when to pick my battles, so rather than argue I tend to just tune him out and do what I want."

"Easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission?" said Sam, surreptitiously pushing down on the wound in his hand as Lucifer seemed to find the statement particularly amusing.

Barbra smiled, sensing a kindred spirit. "Exactly."

Even Dean nodded in agreement; it was, after all, the exact same approach he used to take with his father.

There was something very liberating about the hunter community, Sam decided as he gave Barbra an appraising look, in that everyone was encouraged to learn how to defend themselves. He and Dean were not exactly poster boys for feminism, as evidenced by his blatant checking out, but it was difficult to ignore when both your mother and grandmother were renowned for their demon fighting exploits.

"Maybe I should take you to the county morgue first," Barbra mused, glancing at her watch and unaware she'd just broken Sam's mood. "I've a contact there now who'll let us in, and perhaps prowling the cemetery is best done under cover of night,"

"That sounds like a plan," answered Sam.

"Sounds like the girl likes a stiff, you should get on famously," quipped Lucifer before flashing out of existence, as Sam forced his thumb firmly into his wound with a wince.

"First, let me re-bandage your hand," Barbra said suddenly shy, gently taking Sam's injured hand in her own as she inspected the open wound on his hand. "You don't want to get it infected," she added as she led him off in the direction of the kitchen.

Dean raised an eyebrow. _Maybe I'm losing my touch, or maybe she just really likes sasquatches_. Chuckling to himself, he made himself scarce so his brother could get some long-overdue female attention, even if it was just to get himself patched up.

~#~

"Hi Barbra," the scruffy, razor-thin morgue attendant called in greeting in an over-friendly tone.

"Hello George, these are the friends of mine from out-of-town that I was telling you about, Sam and Dean Winchester. This is George Santana."

George had scowled at the brothers when he noted the casual way Barbra had placed her hand on Sam's arm without seeming to be aware of what she was doing, but he was somewhat mollified by Dean's exuberance over how cool his surname was.

"Here's the report," he said, making a point of leaning past Sam and handing it to Dean.

"So could we see the bodies?" asked Sam, trying not to let his amusement show.

"I'm sorry, I really can't do that. It's too risky, I could lose my job," George complained, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck.

"Hey, Four Symbols! Nice tats, man," Dean said in surprise, noticing the tattooed designs on the underside of George's forearm.

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm a big fan," George answered, a little embarrassed.

Dean nodded his approval. "Cool name and a Zeppelin fan to boot, you're my kinda guy," he chuckled, unwitting of the impact he was having.

George gave a shy smile, ducking his head in pleasure at the attention. "I guess I could show you the body if you promise to be quick."

He led them through a muddled, nondescript office into a scrupulously clean examining room and pulled open a metal drawer to display a sheet-covered body.

"This is one of the bodies recovered; the other's already been released to family without an autopsy."

"Isn't that kinda unusual?" asked Sam.

"Politics. She's the mayor's daughter," George sniffed, not happy to have to be answering Sam's questions.

"Notice the bite marks, the pattern is definitely human, it doesn't look like an animal by any stretch of the imagination, despite what the police say," added George, his manner so much more confident when in his element.

"Yeah, cause they can't believe a human would tear some poor schmuck apart," offered Dean, thinking back to the time they were held captive by the cannibalistic Bender family.

The brothers prodded and poked, but there was nothing more than the mundane, if controversial, details George had already included in his report.

"So, erm, Dean," said George, clearing his throat. "Here's my card, in case you need anything else. I've, er, written my cell number on the back."

"Thanks, man, you've been a big help," grinned Dean, giving George a friendly slap on the back, oblivious to the amused look shared by Sam and Barbra.

As George sighed, while watching Barbra and Dean leave, he failed to notice the faint stirring of the body behind him.

~#~

Barbra's cell phone rang and she gave a small huff of annoyance when she saw the name of the caller. Despite this she still answered it, walking a couple of paces away and had an intense conversation pitched too low for the brothers to catch.

"Oh, oh. Busted," commented Dean to Sam.

"Huh?"

"I recognize that look from when Dad use to catch you in the library instead of training like a good little soldier." _Except that most of the time it would be me taking the flak until I got better at covering for you_ , Dean thought, but didn't add.

As if on cue, Barbra came over. "Duty calls," she sighed, before giving herself a mental shake and directing them to the cemetery.

"I'll meet you back at the house. Dinner's at seven sharp. Don't be late," she growled at Dean. She gave Sam a brief smile like a sudden ray of sunlight before stalking off. The brothers took a moment to watch her leave, then shared a quick grin before getting down to work.

~#~

Evans City cemetery turned out to be surprisingly large.

"How big is this town exactly?" grumbled Sam, tripping over yet another headstone in the near-dark.

"Oh stop your moaning, Samantha. It's not like we've got anything better to do," Dean shot back, his voice thick with sarcasm. He'd made a joke about Sam always tripping over his big feet earlier, but hadn't liked the come-back.

"So what do we do now?"

"Split up?" Dean shrugged.

"Are you kidding? Don't you watch horror films?" Sam asked in mock seriousness.

Dean pulled a face; it's not as if Sam did, and his own preference was for action-only flicks, as his brother knew full well. "At least it'll get this over and done with. Anyway, so far it's just some old dude and his stuck-up granddaughter."

"Ha, you're just pissed that she doesn't dig you."

"She seems to have filled out your dance card already bro, she's obviously unstable."

"What? D'you really think so?"

Dean smiled at Sam's earnest tone. "Yes, really. About her liking you, not the insane part."

 _And for her sake she better not break your heart_ , he thought.

(;,;)


	2. Chapter 2

Sam and Dean had wandered through the cemetery for several hours without really finding anything of importance. "Well, this has just been one epic pain in my ass," groused Dean.

Lucifer quirked an eyebrow and appeared to be on the verge of speaking, only to release the breath in a long drawn-out sigh. "Nah, it's too easy," he said at last, with a smirk.

Sam stared off into the distance, too distracted to really listen to what his brother was saying. It was like his head knew there was nothing there, but his gut was telling him something else. It was nothing specific, just a feeling of anxiety... a _strong_ feeling of anxiety.

He gave a small gasp as he saw a figure approach in the rapidly fading light, but breathed easier when it turned out to be an old woman passing by with a small wreath clutched in one hand. On seeing them, she pursed her lips as she tightened her coat around herself and walked a little faster.

Dean blew out a sarcastic chuckle. "I don't know what's worse, you being scared of the old people, or us accidentally terrorizing them. I've had enough. I'm sure you don't want to upset _Barbra_ , so I say we head back."

Lucifer frowned, the growing sense of _wrongness_ about the place, which he now seemed to share with Sam, made him feel twitchy and ill-at-ease. For once, he chose to disappear without having to be driven off first.

Sam gave one more look around and shivered, but seeing nothing he turned back to his brother. "Okay, let's go."

~#~

Judy had promised herself that she wouldn't do it, but at the last minute she'd decided she ought to pay a visit to Tom's grave. He'd always been a bit of a bully in life, but damn it if some misguided part of her didn't miss the mean old son-of-a-bitch. She threw down the wreath. "Happy anniversary," she spat out, unsure if she was celebrating or commiserating.

The question was answered a moment later, when she noticed the loose earth around the grave start to move. She stood frozen in terror as a mottled hand reached out from the ground.

When Tom crawled from what was meant to be his final resting place, Judy's throat unlocked enough to start screaming.

 _You bastard, I always knew you'd be the death of me_ , she thought.

She didn't scream for long.

~#~

"Did you hear that?" Sam asked.

"Hmm?" queried a distracted Dean, looking up from a map of the cemetery.

"Never mind, it's nearly seven. We really should go."

They arrived back at the house to find Barbra hard at work in the kitchen. She waved off Sam's shy offer of help, instead asking them for an update on their progress. The brothers were spared any further embarrassment as her cellphone rang and she held up a finger to silence their stuttered explanations. "Oh, it's George. Looks like he's been trying to get hold of me, I better get this."

"Ah! Barbra... I need help!" The panicky cry from the phone was so loud that the brothers could hear it clear across the room.

"George, what's wrong, where are you?"

"I'm in the office. The body you were looking at earlier? Seems like he doesn't want to lie down any more!"

"What? Are you for real? This isn't some kinda joke is it?" asked Barbra suspiciously. A thought occurred to her, making her forehead crease up into a fierce frown. "You're not angling for a _white knight_ , are you? Cause I gotta say, he might _seem_ to be overcompensating, but I'm not sure he actually swings that way."

Dean looked puzzled by her conversation, but Sam covered a snigger behind one hand.

"No, no, this is real... Oh God, is this real! I know you're into this stuff, I was hoping you could bring your two tough guys and kinda save my ass? Please?"

"Okay, George, we're on our way," she said, worried by the edge of hysteria in his voice as she beckoned for the brothers to follow her.

Dean looked at the waiting, freshly baked pie with longing. "Not even a slice for the road?" he grumbled half-joking as they ran out to the car.

~#~

When they arrived at the morgue, they could hear the sound of a slow, irregular pounding on a metal door.

They made their careful way into the office area and were soon greeted with the sight of a disheveled, naked man hurling himself against the door to the inner office.

"Hey, buddy," called Sam.

The figure stopped and turned, emitting a deep groan like a large, creaking door.

It was definitely the body they'd seen earlier that day on the mortuary slab.

_Zombie? There's no such thing_ _, thought Dean._

The only thing he'd seen that was similar hadn't even been supernatural; it had been some years back in New Orleans, a couple of poor souls poisoned with a neurotoxin by a so-called _Bocor_ from Haiti.

Seeming to be distracted by the sound of their arrival, the figure abandoned its attack on the door and started a shambling shuffle towards them. As it approached, Sam was overwhelmed by a feeling of _wrongness_ as his stomach churned in response to the creature's presence. He couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by the thing; it was almost as if he had some kind of connection with it.

"I _really_ think you should move," said Lucifer, being careful to maintain his distance while raising a hand to cover his nose and mouth.

"Sam, step back," shouted Dean, the tension clear in his voice.

Sam realized he'd been standing frozen in his brother's line of fire and hastily stepped out of range.

Dean fired his shotgun at the creature, cursing as the salt rounds failed to do more than temporarily slow its advance. Still, he considered as he reloaded with normal shells, it was probably safer what with Sam trying to do some kind of zombie-whispering gig.

Barbra stepped forward and fired a single bullet to the creature's head. It collapsed to the floor.

"Good thing this was a _Romero_ zombie, and not a _28 Days Later_ one," she quipped. Dean chuckled in relieved embarrassment, but Sam just looked blank.

"Don't worry Sammy, just a bit of low-brow culture; nothing you'd be interested in," Dean laughed at his brother's confused expression, surreptitiously giving Sam a quick visual check-over to make sure he was uninjured.

Barbra had already called for George through the door, and after a moment it unlocked and opened, and a cautious head emerged. "Oh, thank God," George cried, before giving Barbra a quick hug, but not so traumatized that he didn't still manage to cast a small, shy smile in Dean's direction.

They looked down at the body which was still just barely moving, only now it seemed uncoordinated. "Man, I'm looking at it and I still can't believe what I'm seeing," moaned George.

"What do you think it is?" asked Barbra.

"I've never seen anything like this before," Sam admitted.

Dean just shrugged, but gave his brother a concerned look, they'd been through a lot together, but he'd never seen his brother freeze in the midst of a hunt before.

Sam knew what his brother was thinking, Hell, he was thinking it himself. "There's something about it that makes me feel sick," he tried to explain.

Dean glanced down at the mindlessly moving flesh and pulled a face. "I don't think you'll get any arguments from anyone about that."

"No, I mean it's like I can sense its _wrongness_. It's almost like a... _vision_ ," Sam said, struggling to explain the weird feeling he was getting.

Dean blanched and looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Sammy," he whispered, barely audible. Both brothers knew there was an unvoiced " _No please, not that._ "

"So, what happened?" Dean asked George, suddenly all business again.

George blinked. "I don't really know. One minute I was filling in some paperwork, the next I look up and he's just standing there. I freaked out and ran into the other office. Lucky I had my phone on me, I guess." He turned to Barbra. "Thanks for picking up, _eventually_."

Barbra rolled her eyes. "Just be grateful we weren't eating; grandfather always makes me switch it off," she added with a false smile.

"He doesn't seem to show any signs of giving up either," noted Sam, nudging the still moving corpse with his boot.

George pulled on a pair of latex gloves with a snap, and started lifting the zombie up by its wrists, being careful to avoid the snapping jaws. "Okay, we need to dump him in the incinerator. Who's gonna help me?"

"You know, you're really quite bad ass, aren't you?" smiled Dean, with a new respect for the mortuary assistant, while grabbing hold of the zombie's ankles to help lift it.

Together they managed to stuff the creature into the incinerator. George threw in his gloves after it, slammed the door shut and set the temperature to maximum. After a moment, the sound of movement died away.

"Handy thing you got there," said Dean.

"Yeah, it's to dispose of crap," answered George distractedly, rubbing his chin and staring off into space. "Interesting that its behavior changed after the shot to the head. It was obviously capable of simple thought, but destroying the brain still didn't kill it," he pondered.

"So what does that mean?"

"I have no idea!" George laughed. "Oh, I just thought..." George said, turning suddenly serious. "The funeral of the girlfriend is tomorrow, the body's already at the funeral home. Do you think...?"

"You're giving directions," Dean said, dragging George along behind him, as he ran to find Sam and Barbra.

~#~

They dashed from the cramped car that barely held the four of them. Sam pulled a face as they drew nearer to the door. "Urgh, I feel sick again."

"Okay," said Dean, trying to keep his voice calm and even. "Can you tell whereabouts it is?" He was worried about Sam's sudden new ability, but he was also not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"It's not that exact," Sam grumbled. "But there's definitely something here."

"Okay, let's go in then."

"Er, can I have a gun too?" asked George hesitantly.

"Why, you know how to shoot one?"

"No."

"Then we're all safer if you don't. Just stay near to me and I'll keep you safe," Dean said, clapping George on the arm. George nodded nervously, but from his grin it was also clear that on one level he was having the time of his life.

Together they crept into the building, where all the lights were on in the first couple of rooms they passed, but no one seemed to answer their call.

"We should split up, it'd be quicker," said Dean reluctantly.

"Again with the splitting up," complained Sam.

"Don't worry, I'll hold your hand if you're scared," teased Barbra.

Dean chuckled. "Okay, you two check upstairs, and George and I'll take the rest of the back rooms," he ordered. "Be careful, okay?" he fussed, not happy to be letting Sam out of his sight, but he'd seemed to have picked up a civilian and he couldn't in good conscience leave him to fend for himself.

"All right George, you're with me. Keep behind me and your eyes peeled, okay?"

George nodded and followed, coloring a little as he'd already had his eyes on Dean's behind.

They made their way down a long hall, Dean training his gun on each of the open doorways as they went past.

"So, how long have you been doing this kinda thing?" asked George nervously.

Dean flicked him a quick look of irritation. "Just about my whole freakin' life," he muttered.

"Oh," replied George, at a loss as to what else to say. "Shall I get that?" he asked, gesturing to the closed metal door they'd reached at the end of the corridor.

"Yeah, that'd be great," answered Dean, trying to remind himself to try to go easy on the guy, it wasn't as if the man would be used to dealing with this kind of thing. Plus he seemed like a good guy, if a little nerdy, and at least he was trying.

"Ah, Dean?" George said softly, letting go of the door handle and holding out his hand. "It's blood, pretty fresh too."

Dean released a deep sigh. "Okay, let's do this. Ready?"

George gave Dean a nod of confirmation before throwing open the door. There was another relieved sigh when the open doorway didn't reveal anything untoward. "Oh thank God! I can't tell you how scared I was that something was gonna jump out and..."

"Duck!" shouted Dean with a tinge of hysteria to his voice, as he raised his shotgun to point directly at George's head. With a shrill shriek, George did as he was told and dived for the floor, deafened, mere moments later, by two roars from the shotgun in quick succession.

George looked up in time to see the ravaged body of the funeral home owner fall to the ground. He wiped the blood splatter from his face and gave Dean a shaky smile of thanks. "That was Mr. Addams, he's the owner," George said in a small voice, before suddenly darting forward to vomit in a nearby trashcan. "I'm sorry," he muttered in embarrassed contrition. "I don't know what came over me."

Dean waved aside the apology with one hand, while scanning the rest of the room for any other signs of threat. "Don't worry about it, man. It's different when it's not work, isn't it," he said in an understanding voice.

"Thanks," George answered, meaning it in the broadest possible sense. He paused and frowned, then turned to a Dean. "His son would have been here too."

With impeccable timing, the sound of a shotgun being fired echoed from somewhere in the distance.

~#~

Sam started at the twin sounds of gunfire, snagging his sleeve on the door. As he turned to free himself, he was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea that made him stumble over his own feet.

"Sam," Barbra screamed in pure horror at the sight of the blood-soaked figure of a young man lumbering towards them.

Still off balance, Sam put up a hand to fend off his attacker, only to yell in pain as the thing bit down on his already wounded hand.

"Down," yelled Barbra and years of practice meant Sam complied immediately, allowing her to blast off the thing's head with her shotgun. The animated body continued to move in an uncoordinated way, but as before in the morgue, no longer seemed a direct threat.

"Are you, okay?" Barbra asked in concern, rushing over to Sam. She helped him to his feet and led him by the arm away from the threat.

He made an effort to stand a little straighter and gave her a rueful look, shaking his hand as if he could discard the pain. "It smarts, but I think it's really my pride that might've been mortally wounded. Caught in a door... really. Please don't mention this to Dean; he'll never let me live it down."

Barbra gave a low, throaty chuckle that did strange things to Sam's stomach. "Don't worry, you're still my great, white hunter," she teased and gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

Sam's thunderstruck expression made her chuckle again. "Come on, we should find the others, they must've heard the shots, and we need to get rid of... _this_ ," she said, motioning to the still twitching body that was slowly inching its way across the floor towards them.

~#~

There had been no sign of the dead girl, although they searched the funeral home from top to bottom, as well as the immediate area. In the end, defeated, they disposed of the moving remains of the zombies in the incinerator as before, then retreated back to the Jones house. In the absence of any decent information the urge to return to warm and familiar surroundings was difficult to ignore.

Ben listened to the description of the evening's events with interest. "This is unlike anything I've ever heard of," he muttered to himself.

Sam still felt a little light-headed and collapsed into one of the chairs with relief. He felt completely drained, but despite this, Lucifer had been thankfully absent for some time. It was unusual, but he certainly wasn't complaining.

Ben noted the look of concern Dean sent in his brother's direction. "Everything else all right?" he asked. Dean looked shifty and Sam's complexion paled even further, _Winchesters and their secrets_ , Ben snorted to himself.

When Barbra offered to re-bandage Sam's hand again, Ben struggled to hide his smile when he noticed the looks passing between the pair. _Ah, no wonder the young man's sweating so much!_

He noticed how exhausted everyone looked. "I think we should all get some rest, and start out refreshed in the morning."

"Are you sure that's a good idea? There could be more of those things out there," Dean argued.

"Maybe, but in my experience tiredness just breeds mistakes, and we may need to keep our wits about us tomorrow," Ben said, his tone making it quite clear that he was giving an order. He was surprised when Dean didn't try to argue further, but instead just sagged and looked relieved to not be the one in charge for a change. _There's one who's teetering on the edge_ , thought Ben sadly, recognizing the signs of burnout in a hunter when he saw it.

"Oh, and don't worry, I'm a _very_ light sleeper and a crack shot to boot," Ben added mischievously with a significant look in Sam's direction."

(;,;)


	3. Chapter 3

Dean stood on the shore of the lake, frozen with fear at the sight of the trench coat-clad corpse that rose from the depths of the water and slowly lumbered to the shore.

Dean was unable to move as Castiel's water-bloated remains drew level with him and he stared, lost in the horror of the filmy white eyes that had once been such a deep and vivid blue.

"I'm coming back for you," the corpse groaned, as it reached out and took Dean by the shoulder.

"Dean," someone called, shaking him.

Dean jumped up from his bed in sheer terror, his hand instinctively finding the knife he always kept under his pillow. His heart pounded as if it was going to explode from his chest and the pooled sweat on his body felt like it was rapidly turning to ice.

"Whoa, whoa!" cried George in alarm, backing off quickly and holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"What?" snarled Dean, still chasing away the cobwebs of confusion.

"Sorry, it's only been a couple of hours, but there's trouble, I'm afraid. Sam sent me to get you... he... looks as bad as you do. Bad dreams?"

"I... don't remember," Dean lied.

"So... do you always sleep fully dressed?" George asked with a slight hint of disappointment.

"Only when I expect trouble," Dean grumbled.

"I'm guessing that's a 'yes' then..."

~#~

"So, what's going on?" demanded Dean, as he strode into the living room to find the others peering through the room's blinds.

He stopped in his tracks when Sam turned at the sound of his voice and motioned for him to keep the noise down. He was shocked to see how pale and drawn Sam looked, with eyes underlined with dark, purple smudges.

"Sammy, you look like crap," Dean whispered in concern, rushing over to his brother and holding a hand to Sam's forehead. "You're burning up, man. You should be in bed."

"No time for that, Dean," Sam rasped and motioned to the windows. "Look out there."

Peering through the crack in the blinds, Dean was horrified at the sight awaiting him. Ghastly figures lurched around, wandering aimlessly in the street in search of who knew what. Each one of them walked with the same lumbering gait as the living corpses from earlier.

"Zombies?"

"They're _everywhere_ ," said Sam, sounding weak and starting to sway.

"Well, there goes the neighborhood. Typical," snorted Lucifer. Sam couldn't help but spin round in surprise as he registered the tone was more one of irritation than the usual sick humor. The sudden movement made him stagger.

"Hey, hey, sit down," ordered Dean, guiding his brother over to the couch. "Come on, man you look ready to drop."

"I'm fine," grumbled Sam, trying to push Dean's fussing hands away from him.

Dean turned to Barbra who was hovering nearby, looking uncharacteristically anxious. "Back me up here."

Barbra bit her lip, hugging her arms around herself a little tighter. "He's right, Sam."

Sam blinked in surprise as if he'd forgotten that Barbra was in the room. Being aware of her presence seemed to have a positive effect; Sam looked less ashen and he even sat up a little straighter. "Seriously, I'm fine. I'm just tired... and hungry. Actually, I'm _starving_."

Dean narrowed his eyes, not quite convinced, but the admission did make him feel more relaxed about his brother. Sam was a big guy and he ate like a horse; actually, sometimes the health food crap he insisted on chowing down on looked indistinguishable from animal feed and Dean often joked about getting him a nosebag. Unlike Dean, who was quite happy with his mainly liquid diet - other than the odd cheeseburger or plate of bacon - Sam was pretty insistent on getting his regular five or six small meals a day.

Barbra sighed. "Come on then," she said as she dragged Sam off to the kitchen.

George looked undecided for a moment, but elected eventually to remain where he was - deciding that he wanted to keep an eye out for any zombie trying to creep up on him and that now definitely wasn't a time for him to eat or play gooseberry to the burgeoning young love. "Listen, I have a strong stomach, yeah. I couldn't do what I do unless I did. I've seen some bad things, but I'm used to the idea of dead bodies staying where I left them. So why've they suddenly all decided to start getting up and move around?"

"Maybe there's somewhere they'd rather be?" snorted Dean, a little distracted as he watched his brother leave.

"Perhaps they don't like the neighborhood, or they'd prefer a coffin with a view?" George laughed harshly, sounding shrill to his own ears. He put a hand over his own mouth and forced himself to breathe. He'd seen it in enough people to recognize the signs of impending hysteria.

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Sorry."

"It's okay, son" said Ben kindly, thinking that the young man was actually dealing with the situation incredibly well. "This isn't exactly an everyday occurrence, is it?"

Ben turned to Dean, "I've been listening in to the police frequencies; they're describing it as an 'unparalleled civil disobedience'."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I know," Ben continued, "but the number of reported incidents is increasing and I don't think it's coincidence that it's centered on the cemetery. If anything, they seem to be focused on the southwest corner of the cemetery, which are the newer graves. At first there was almost nothing reported from the older sections, that no longer seems to be the case."

"Take it from me, diggin' yourself from outta your own grave ain't exactly easy, especially if you've been down there a while," muttered Dean, with an obvious depth of feeling.

Ben and George started back at him with matching expressions of undisguised dismay.

Dean cleared his throat. "Er, right. So what you're saying is that this thing seems to be affecting the more recent dead first."

George considered that and nodded in agreement. "That's a good point, but I wonder if that means it's starting there, or if it's due to a cumulative buildup of some sort of zombie-raising power?"

"Does it matter?" asked Ben. He winced a little at how that sounded as he was genuinely interested in George's answer.

"Well, if it's the latter, it could mean it's not just a simple matter of fixing things by stopping whatever's causing it. It might not be so simple as just flicking a switch. Whatever's animating them could continue for some time. And the ones that are already up and walking already... they might not just drop when this is over."

"Now _that_ would just be normal Winchester luck," grumbled Dean.

"Maybe," said Ben, "But, let's not worry unduly about that now. We haven't even discovered the source of the problem yet, let's cross that bridge when we come to it."

~#~

In the kitchen, Barbra was fixing Sam a sandwich. She was worried about him; he looked awful and she didn't for a second believe the platitudes he'd used on his brother. Sam tucked into his sandwich with gusto, but after a couple of mouthfuls he slowed in his chewing and eventually stopped. He put the sandwich down on the plate and looked a little lost and confused.

Barbra looked at him with concern. "Is everything okay?" When he didn't respond and only stared at her as if she was speaking another language, she tried again. "Is there something wrong with your sandwich?"

"No, it's not that," said Sam, coming back to life with a slight start. "It just isn't... right somehow. It's like I need... something? Like I'm hungry for... _something_. But I don't know what."

From his position perched up on the kitchen counter, Lucifer waggled his eyebrows suggestively only for his expression to unexpectedly sour. Without another word he flicked out of sight.

Barbra struggled to suppress her irritation, it's not like she made sandwiches for just _anybody,_ and she did feel that since the Winchesters had arrived she'd been relegated to the kitchen for more than her fair share. And if anything, her father had become even _more_ patriarchal than usual. "Sounds like you're coming down with something, did you get much sleep?"

Sam shook his head, making his long locks bounce. "No. I had bad dreams, even worse than usual..."

Barbra had an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through that beautiful hair. _Damn, I'm falling badly for this one. Why do the cute ones so often come with baggage?_

Sam took another absent-minded bite of his sandwich, but the taste of it in his mouth was like ashes and it was all he could do not to choke on the small morsel. His stomach decided it had had enough of its contents and rebelled, and he rushed over to the trashcan arriving only just in time.

Barbra held his hair out of his face while he threw up the rest of what little he had just eaten. She sighed wearily. _This is just my luck that this is how my wish comes true._

~#~

Dean looked up to see his shaky-looking brother reenter the room. Sam still seemed grey and pasty and, if anything, even worse than before. _If that's what Barbra's food's done then maybe it wasn't such a bad thing we missed dinner after all._

Barbra came in a moment later with a tray of sandwiches. She handed Dean a plate with a large slice of pie. "Sam said it's your favorite."

Dean gave a weak, polite smile that soon turned into a broad grin of gratitude as he tucked into the pie. He gave Sam a sly, side-long glance before turning back to Barbra. "Delicious," he raved around a mouth full of pastry, spraying crumbs everywhere, but mainly in Sam's direction.

Sam was still well enough to roll his eyes and he turned away with an expression of prim disgust and went to talk to Ben instead.

Dean's expression was one of amused satisfaction until it turned serious as he rounded on Barbra. "Is he okay?" he asked softly.

Barbra didn't need any explanation as to whom he was talking about. "No, I'm worried. One of those things..."

"Guys, I'm _fine_ ," interrupted Sam, casting a significant look in Barbra's direction. "There are way more important things we need to be worrying about. I'm just running a light fever is all, some ibuprofen and rest and I'll be right as rain."

"I dunno Sammy, you look pretty crappy to me. I think we need to get you checked out."

"I tell you what; I'll go scrounge up some antibiotics. Will that make you feel better?"

Dean frowned in irritation at his brother's mocking tone. "Yeah, I guess so." He turned to Barbra. "Will you go with him and make sure he doesn't fall flat on his face?"

"Sure, I s'pose. Why, what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go check out the cemetery again. If that's the cause of this then we need to stop it before it spreads any further."

"At least take George with you," begged Sam. When he spotted the surprised expression on the mortuary assistant's face he gave the man his full-on puppy-eyed look. "That's okay with you, isn't it George?"

Few people can stand up to the onslaught of Sam's sad eyes, so George ummed and ahhed for all of ten seconds before squaring his shoulders and nodding in acquiescence. "Okay," he sighed. "I might not be able to shoot, but I guess I can at least make sure nothing creeps up behind you."

~#~

"Let me look at your hand, Sam."

"I'm _fine_."

Barbra reached out and grabbed Sam's hand, deliberately squeezing down hard, raising her eyebrows at him as he gasped out loud in pain. "Hmm, I thought so. Let me look."

Reluctantly, Sam allowed her to unwrap the bandages.

Her nose started to wrinkle at the smell before she had even got half way. "Oh Sam," she moaned in dismay as she removed the last of the wrapping to reveal the weeping, rotting mess that was his hand.

Lucifer stepped back into view and peered down at the extremity with a worried look. His face tightened as he noticed Sam's attention. "Bah, it's just what you're all _really_ like on the inside," he sneered.

Sam clenched his jaw and kept his focus firmly on Barbra. "Please, don't tell Dean. He's got enough to worry about right now. Just bandage it up again and let's see if the antibiotics help."

Barbra was conflicted, but ultimately she too gave in under the power of his puppy-like eyes. She re-bandaged Sam's hand as quickly and efficiently as she could, trying her best to avoid causing Sam any additional pain. "Okay, let's go."

It was only a short walk to the pharmacy, but the need to avoid the shuffling, dead inhabitants made it seem much longer. They ran from car to car for cover as they made their way down the street, dodging the lurching figures moving slowly in the gloom.

"It's almost like nothing's really changed. Like any regular Tuesday night here in Hicksville, only maybe they're just a little quieter than usual," chuckled Lucifer.

"Shouldn't we do something about them?" asked Barbra, biting at her bottom lip.

"I guess we should, but I didn't really want to draw any unnecessary notice to us, if we can help it," said Sam.

"True, we don't want them all coming at once, but it just feels wrong to leave them wandering about like that. You don't know who they might hurt."

"I know, I feel the same, but I don't think I'm really up to fighting a running battle right now. And I guess it's better we try to figure out where they're coming from."

"And it's handy you also get some quality time alone with the new squeeze," said Lucifer, with a false air of innocence.

Any further conversation was halted by the discovery that not only was the pharmacy still open, but that it also appeared deserted. The doors looked like they'd taken a severe battering.

Barbra bit her lip in worry. "I hope they're okay, they're a nice family."

Sam hoped so too, but from the quantity of blood splattered across the floor and windows, someone was _definitely_ not okay. He really hated to think it, but it did resolve the problem of not actually having a prescription and, if he was honest, it would be a nice change to have antibiotics that were actually intended for human consumption rather than animal use.

"There's only so much generic antibiotic you can scam for your 'sick fish'. So how d'ya reckon Dean always managed to score the strong stuff when you were _really_ ill?" asked Lucifer in a derisive tone.

Sam ignored the jibe - it was nothing he hadn't thought about himself from time to time. He knew he had a tendency to take his brother for granted sometimes, but what family didn't? And in a weird way it was worse because Dean was so dependable. His brother was his rock, _So what if we don't say it, that doesn't make it any less real_.

Lucifer made a face at the sappy, self-introspection. He leaned heavily on the shelving for support and busied himself with inspecting the array of eczema treatments on offer.

Sam gave himself a mental shake, and Barbra an apologetic smile. He searched behind the counter while Barbra kept lookout. For a moment his vision wavered as if the world was closing in around him. The words on the various packets and bottles seemed to dance mockingly in front of him.

"Not feeling quite yourself, are you?" Lucifer said so quietly that it was almost like he could have been talking to himself. Sam might have been imagining it, but it almost sounded like the devil was concerned. Sam barely bit back the retort that immediately sprang to mind, _It's better than feeling like you_.

"No point worrying about that now," Lucifer muttered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow. He puffed out his cheeks and released a loud, ostentatious sigh of boredom then wandered out of sight down one of the aisles.

Sam's vision seemed to clear and he turned back to his search, soon finding the medicine he needed with a cry of triumph.

"Got it? _Good_. Now let's get out of here, this place is making me nervous," called Barbra as loudly as she dared from her look-out position by the door.

Waves of nausea and dizziness made Sam stumble a little, and he swayed as he tried to stay on his feet.

"Just... give me a minute," he gasped, his hands on his knees, smiling up at Barbra as she passed him a can of soda to help swallow the medication. The short journey back to the Jones' residence now seemed like a trek of marathon-like proportions.

"Goodbye, Sammy," said Lucifer in a sad, quiet voice as he watched them leave before slowly fading from view.

~#~

On the way back there were many near run-ins with the walking dead. Barbra's heart dropped when they almost collided with one of the zombies, but luckily it just gaped at Sam with an odd sort of hurt puzzlement, before stumbling on its way. Barbra cast a worried look in Sam's direction, noting the tight and drawn expression. He seemed increasingly vague as time went by.

He staggered along beside her, his gait not all that different from those that threatened them and Barbra couldn't help but wonder how much longer he had. "Please, Sam. We're nearly home, just hold on." As she called out her encouragements, Barbra realized they were more for her own benefit.

Sam looked at her with a blank expression, her heart bled to see such a lack of understanding. "Oh Sam, what are we going to do?"

Sam looked at her in confusion for the longest time.

"Stop right there," came the harsh shout to their right. Barbra jolted in fright, annoyed with herself for being so distracted as to allow someone to creep up on her. Sam barely seemed to register the approach of a handful of armed men.

"Oh, you poor bastard," whispered one of the men rubbing a hand over his face in agitation, before they all raised their rifles to point in Sam's direction,

"You're okay now, just move away from him, Miss," called one of the older men - the obvious leader of the group - in a kind, but authoritative voice.

"What? No, please... you don't understand," begged Barbra as she pushed Sam behind her to shield him with her body. Although she couldn't put a name to any of them, she was sure she recognized some of the men by sight as neighbors from in and around the immediate vicinity. They weren't thugs, these were family men, scared by events beyond their understanding. By _anyone's_ understanding.

The man looked at her with sympathy. "Listen, we've been seeing this all day. It's too late for him."

One of the younger men piped up. "Don'tcha know, it's the end of days, baby, and the dead have risen."

The older man silenced him with glare and a hard shove. "He's corpse-bit. It's only a matter of time before he's one of them. Isn't it better to end his pain quick before he can hurt anyone else?"

Before Barbra could squeeze a response out of a throat that had closed in horror, the men were distracted by a sudden influx of the dead. Seizing the opportunity, she grabbed hold of Sam by the wrist and dragged him behind her as she heard the sound of gunfire and a high-pitched scream, that was suddenly cut short, as one of the men was overpowered.

~#~

Barbra's heart hammered in her chest, pounded in her throat, and throbbed in her temples in the effort to run, pull Sam along after her, and keep an eagle-eye out for both walking corpses and vigilantes.

Her home finally in sight, she dragged him across the road, unlocked the door with the key she had at the ready, and shoved him into the house, locking and bolting the door behind her.

"I'm really not cut out for this," she gasped.

Sam's confusion seemed to clear and he looked up at her from where he'd collapsed on his back on the floor. "You seem pretty badass to me."

Barbra forced a laugh. "Well, until now I tended to more of the academic than the hands-on hunting..." She helped Sam to his feet. "You seem a little better."

"I don't feel it," Sam groaned, clutching and massaging his head with his free hand. He stopped for a moment, before looking around in confusion. "How did we get back here?"

Barbra looked at him with concern, noticing for the first time the network of thin black veins half-hidden by his collar that had worked their way up his neck.

She was distracted by the sound of a heavy pounding on the front door. Looking through the peephole she recognized some of the men from earlier.

"We know you're in there. We're only after the infected one," called the leader.

"What do they want?" Sam asked, with only the vaguest of recollections.

"They're after you, Sam. You need to get away."

Sam gave her a blank look for a moment, then shook his head emphatically. "I can't just leave you here on your own."

"I'm not alone, Grandfather is here too."

"Then we'll take him too," said Sam, flinching as the sound of gunfire and screaming echoed from just outside.

"No, he's too frail, he'll just slow you down... and I can't just leave him for any damn zombie. It was hellish out there. Anyway, you have your brother..."

Sam nodded his understanding. If there was anything a Winchester understood it was that family always came first.

Without a second thought Barbra surged forward, pulling him down to her level so she could kiss him deeply and thoroughly. After a moment she stepped back, slightly breathless. "It would have been good, Sam."

"Thanks," Sam stammered, somewhat lost for words.

"Now, get your ass outta here," she wept. She watched him flee through the back of the house.

Moments later she heard the sound of breaking glass and, although she tried to deny it, she knew in her heart that she wasn't likely to ever see Sam Winchester alive again.

(;,;)


	4. Chapter 4

It was cold and he was terrified, so he didn't know which was making him shake more. _Nah, it's just the adrenaline_ , George reassured himself in a vain attempt to bolster his morale. Regardless of the cause, he had been trembling for such a long time that it now seemed like it was his new natural state. Certainly Dean had grown increasingly dour and uncommunicative as they made their slow way ever deeper into the cemetery.

George was used to death; it was a part and parcel of his daily routine. Somehow he'd become so inured to it that it had become unremarkable. He knew intellectually that there had come a time when he'd stopped looking at the bodies as human. Maybe, then, this was his punishment. Because that kind of detachment was difficult to carry off when those bodies were insistent on getting up and moving around.

He had never really appreciated before how many dead there really were. It almost seemed like there were more graves than living souls. He wondered how much more that ratio might have changed by the morning. He'd had a number of close scrapes and if it wasn't for Dean's quick wits and quicker guiding hand he suspected he'd be numbering among the deceased himself by now.

Dean stopped without warning and George almost collided with him. "What is it?" George hissed.

Dean held his hand up for a second, indicating that he needed silence and a rare moment to think. "Is it just me, or are they getting _crappier_?"

George's brain kicked in before the immediate, sarcastic comment he had prepared could leave his lips. "They're longer dead, that's all too clear from the state of decomposition." He considered for a moment. "But it seems like there are more of them too, although they're moving slower. It's like they're stronger or more determined somehow."

When they'd first entered the cemetery there had been a couple of newly dead corpses lurching off in the direction of town. A single bullet to the head from Dean's revolver had soon left them barely twitching by the side of the road. As they got deeper into the cemetery they'd started to avoid the dead when the same effect started to take two or three bullets at a time. Now, some seemed almost unstoppable; there had been at least a couple that had no legs and were still grimly dragging themselves along. George had even seen a single forearm scuttling along on its own like some nightmarish spider. That had put paid to any chance that he might ever be able to sleep again.

"Something's doing this," George said, realization hitting him. He waved his hand at the "duh" look Dean was giving him. "No, I mean, something's powering this, and it's getting stronger, building up at the source..."

Dean looked at him in understanding. "I've been walking us in a big circle... and it's like they're all walking outwards, away from a central point. Whatever it is, I think it's in there somewhere," he said, pointing to a series of large mausoleums.

They crept closer, wary of the ground that seemed to almost ripple with the near constant stream of dead crawling from it.

George's heart pounded fit to burst as Dean froze mid-step and swore a long and colorful curse.

"It's that one," Dean groaned, gesturing at a particularly gaudy mausoleum.

George read the name carved into the stone and laughed. " _I. P. Freely_?" He looked at the tense expression on Dean's face in confusion. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Yeah, just not a funny one."

~#~

Barbra locked and double-bolted the door, then watched as Sam stumbled off into the distance. Her heart clenched with the feeling that her future had abandoned her. Despite the noise from the front of the house, she allowed herself a moment to herself to mourn the romance that had never been. Grandfather had always spoken so highly of her parents; of how they'd met and immediately known that they'd found 'the one'. She didn't have that certainty, but she'd been keen to find out herself, given the time.

Earlier that evening, in an uncharacteristic move, Grandfather had kept his comments to himself; not that he'd needed to voice them. At the time she'd been so grateful that he hadn't acknowledged the truth that even the greenest hunter knew: the Winchesters were a curse at the best of times and there was no better way of bringing that death sentence down to bear than to place yourself at the mercy of those two brothers.

The noise from the front of the house grew louder as she slipped the key from the lock and hid it within one of the many drawers within the kitchen. She turned in triumph to face the vigilantes. Her heart froze when instead she found herself opposite a shuffling man with half his face missing.

She grabbed a heavy saucepan from the sink draining board and swung it with all her might in the revenant's direction. She could have almost cheered when, despite barely managing to make it connect with his temple, she sent him stumbling back half a step.

Her grin of triumph faded as she spotted two more walking corpses appearing in the doorway.

"Barbra?" came the querulous call from the other room.

She managed to bring down three more of the creatures before she realized that they were still more coming, but they had just got stuck trying to squeeze through the hall as a massed group. Whatever she meant to yell in response to her grandfather was lost as the corpses overpowered her and she was buried beneath their weight.

Despite the pain, she could barely scream as they tore at her flesh, but when the shotgun rang out, she could have shouted with joy to see her grandfather, despite the agony of his coming to her aid.

"Oh, my Barbra," he sobbed, as he pulled the still moving, but now aimless, corpses off of her.

Barbra couldn't speak through the ravaged mess that was her throat, but her shocked eyes must have given her thoughts away,

Her grandfather turned to see the vigilantes bearing down on them, his motions made jerky by the severe arthritis that had so plagued his twilight years.

Their would-be rescuers came to a running, skidding halt. "There's another one of them," one of them screamed, before being cut-off as his colleagues let loose with an indiscriminate spray of bullets.

Barbra felt her grandfather's hand close around her own just before her vision went dark.

~#~

It was difficult to make out the details of the tomb in the ever-darkening twilight. Dean squinted in the gloom, there was no damn way he needed eyeglasses, no matter how much Sam teased him. His heart lurched. _Not now, focus, Dean._

A number of sigils were painted on the interior walls of the mausoleum in what appeared, from the color and appearance, to be dried blood. Dean recognized it as a more complex variation of the set Bobby had painted on his house - in what the older hunter had always _claimed_ was an attempt to keep Castiel out during his "dark side" phase. Dean's heart clenched again at the thought of his long-lost friend.

There was a dark movement in the air, and a blond, familiar-looking man flickered into sight like a bad TV signal.

" _You!_ It's all your fault!" the ghost-like angel screamed in rage at Dean. With just a motion of his hands, both Dean and George were lifted by an invisible force and flung out through the door.

Although his thought processes were blocked through shock at the sight of Balthazar, Dean's long trained instincts took over. As his father always used to say, only a fool went into a cemetery without a salt-loaded shot gun. Dean had nursed many a whiskey cataloging his faults, but he was no fool. Lying on his back where he had fallen, he raised the gun and fired.

The salt shot exploded through the ghost of the dead angel, temporarily banishing him, as well as obliterating a sizeable portion of the blood-written sigils. Dean had learned enough about Enochian magic from his close watching of Castiel in the past to know that the damage to the angelic symbols, whatever their purpose, would prevent the spell from working.

They were in no shape to be dealing with the wrathful spirit of a dead angel - he'd never even imagined that they even _could_ come back as ghosts - so they would just have to hope that they'd done enough to stop the march of the dead. He sat for a moment, catching his breath and, despite himself, lost in own thoughts.

Watching Castiel die in the reservoir had been horrendous, a kick in the teeth made so much worse as he'd really thought he'd saved the angel from his souled-up power trip. For a while he'd lived in hope, but, after the following weeks led only to fruitless months, he'd soon come to the conclusion that Cas had blown it by trying to take the Boss's job – and that this meant there was not going to be another resurrection on the cards. Following that realization he'd felt numb at the thought that Castiel was gone from his life forever. He really missed that stupid, nerdy angel.

So, to then discover that there was something of Balthazar that had survived death, yet in such pain, was... disturbing.

As if on cue, the tortured spirit re-appeared and threw himself towards Dean in a frenzied motion, his face twisted in fury. Dean fumbled the reload, but at the last minute managed to empty both rounds into Balthazar before the ghost was able to reach him.

There was an anguished wail as the spirit once more dissipated into the dank air of the tomb.

Dean's satisfied relief was crushed by the remembrance that this was just another in a long line of allies that he'd got killed on his watch.

"Let's get outta here," he muttered, climbing to his feet and stumbling for balance, all the time feeling like the metaphorical rug had been pulled out from under him.

~#~

Sam staggered through the cemetery. There were fleeting moments of lucidity where his stomach churned and roiled with some kind of primal revulsion, as though something deep within him was urging him to flee.

Only for something infinitely older and colder to guide him to move at its own direction.

He'd been possessed before. He knew the horror of total awareness while your body moved under another's command. This was different. This was like a slow drifting descent into a strange dream, where everything is muffled and nothing quite seems to make sense, yet still manages to follow its own tortured, internal logic.

Lucifer flickered into sight beside one of the graves, his arms wrapped tight around his body as if trying to literally hold himself together.

"I thought you'd... gone for good. I should've known... too good to be true," Sam groaned.

Lucifer snarled at him, only for it to descend into dry heaving. "You said _'Yes'_ to me, Sammy," he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "There're no take backs with an angel. Once you let us in, we're with you _forever_."

"Well, that might... not be such a long time now. Looks like you're gonna get your wish."

Lucifer pulled a face in response. "Just because I refuse to bow down to your kind, doesn't mean I want an end to _all_ life on earth."

Sam blinked at him blankly. "I can feel it... calling me."

Lucifer shook his head. "It wants _me_. To power the awakening of more of these _abominations_."

Sam still had the wherewithal to snort at that remark.

"It's incompatibility with the natural order," Lucifer scowled. "You need to get out of here. _Now_."

Sam swayed.

"Sam," Lucifer shouted; he wasn't used to being ignored.

Sam looked up in confusion. "I have to... find..."

 _Always with the brother_ , Lucifer sighed.

~#~

George's head was reeling from the events of the last twenty-four hours. He still wasn't sure what they'd achieved - especially given Dean's furious ranting about the lack of any actual remains in the crypt - but he didn't need to be told twice to leave.

As they made their way out, they seemed to see ever-increasing numbers of the dead crawling from their graves. George had a fleeting moment of wondering what seemed to make one corpse rise but not another. The numbers seemed to be growing and he worried if all they had done was to make things worse. The tight, stressed expression on Dean's face made George decide not to share that particular thought.

Dean had fallen into a brooding silence and George missed the earlier tirade. He watched as Dean looked at his phone again, his brow furrowed at the apparent lack of messages.

George had a moment of epiphany as he realized that it was concern for Sam. _It must be nice to be so close to your brother._ He couldn't quite imagine it himself, especially when he realized it had been at least six months since he had last spoken to his siblings at a family dinner, and even then they had only exchanged the very briefest of polite pleasantries. He could only pray they were home and safe from this madness.

He was so distracted by his own thoughts that he didn't notice the hulking figure until a moment too late and he had collided bodily with the man. He really hoped that his high pitched shriek wasn't going to be his last words on earth, when he realized that it was Sam.

In a split second, Dean had rushed over and grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him close. "Sam! Sammy, are you okay?"

George felt his stomach drop. "Where's Barbra?" he asked, his mouth now so dry that the words came out as little more than a cracked rasp.

Sam looked around in confusion. George backed off in a wary expectation of being attacked as he noted Sam's pale and gaunt appearance with his skin an unpleasant bluish-grey color and seemingly stretched too tight across his skull.

George glanced at Dean in concern at the way the man was hovering around Sam. _Doesn't he realize the danger he's in?_ He'd seen Dean put a bullet through the head of more alive-looking walking corpses.

"Back... at house..." Sam sighed, his voice sounding like the wind rustling through fallen leaves.

Wondering how long they had left, George followed keeping a close eye on Dean, but his distance from the brother.

~#~

George felt his skin prickle and the hair stand up on his arms and the back of his neck.

The windows of the Jones' residence were shattered, the front door reduced to kindling, while the drive was spattered with blood.

George looked at Dean nervously. The hunter had his arm wrapped around his brother and, from the look of exertion, was doing most of the work of supporting him.

Sam raised his head and stared at the house for a moment until a look of understanding crossed his features and he wailed a blood-curdling scream that only by the longest stretch of the imagination could have sounded like a name.

Dean tried to hush Sam, but it was too late. The sound had drawn the attention of the occupants of the building.

Ice water passed through George's veins at the sight of the shuffling figure that stepped from the house. Dean struggled to restrain Sam, so was unable to stop George from pulling the shotgun from his grasp.

Shivering, George walked up to the figure until the barrel of the gun was pressed against the head. With no chance of missing, George pulled the trigger and watched the still-twitching body fall to the ground.

As he turned back to the Winchesters, through floods of tears, he could almost see the last light of humanity drain from Sam's eyes.

~#~

No longer hidden by Balthazar's sigils, Bran's Cauldron announced its presence to the Host of Heaven. One of their number, the least and most expendable of that vastly reduced throng, was dispatched to deal with the abhorrent item.

Castiel shivered at the powerful pull the ancient Celtic artefact exerted over his grace. He'd heard of the item before, but never had the misfortune to be in its presence. It was one of many such weapons that had been locked down by Heaven, only to go missing in the mad scramble for power during the early years of the angel civil wars. He should have realized that someone as wily as Balthazar would have several such caches and countless fallback plans.

With some reluctance, he prodded at the cauldron with his mind in an attempt to better understand it, wincing at the _wrongness_ of even that tenuous contact. An affront to the natural order at the best of times, its ability to resurrect the dead as silent warriors had been corrupted by the interaction of the very angelic blood that had been used to hide it. Such formidable magic from such different pantheons should never have been allowed to interact.

To have an object with such powerful dominion over the dead, constrained with the blood of a dead angel – well, the pressure of those opposing, but overlapping, forces must have been immense. It was, perhaps, hardly surprising that Balthazar had been brought back and - given the overwhelming repugnance and urge to flee the cauldron invoked in him - no wonder it had rendered the trapped spirit insane. Given the nature of the powers involved, perhaps they should be relieved that it had _only_ animated the dead.

Castiel faced his old friend. Only Balthazar could have managed to fall so far so as to come back as a spirit without losing his grace. _I'm so sorry, Balthazar._ He wished he could say more, something worthy, but how do you properly apologize to someone that you murdered in cold blood?

With a single gesture from Castiel, the remaining blood on the wall flared into flame and burned into ash. The ghost of Balthazar wailed as he too was consumed in a spiritual flame. Castiel sent a small prayer of his own after him.

No one knew where, if anywhere, angels went when they died.

He walked over to the unassuming, battered black cauldron sitting in the corner of the room that had been kept hidden from angels and devils both. Using his trench coat, and taking great care to avoid any actual skin contact, he picked up the lid that had been left discarded to one side and placed it back on the cauldron, deactivating it.

It was a longshot, but he hoped that once cut off from the source of their reanimating power the dead would start to drop. As he looked outside, judging from the sight of the figures still moving in the gloom it would seem that life was full of disappointment. He watched for a little longer and it soon became clear there were no new additions from the few surrounding graves that had so far remained undisturbed. _That's something, at least._

Castiel wondered where the Winchesters were; he had sought them everywhere, but he suspected that anti-angel warding meant they were too well hidden, especially given his lesser power following his most recent resurrection. He had tried making use of his bond with Dean, but the man had either not been sleeping, or his dreams were so disturbed that it had proved impossible to get through to him clearly.

He'd even looked for Bobby in all the usual places, but the elder hunter was nowhere to be found.

At least they weren't dead. _Well, they've not arrived in Heaven_. He could only hope that they were safe...

What was he thinking? If there was anything that could be counted on, it was that they would be anything but...

~#~

George pushed open the heavy, reinforced front door, long months of recent experience having instructed him to check the coast was clear before he blocked off his exit route. Satisfied that all was well, he locked and double bolted the door behind him.

"Dean?" he called, shaking himself like a dog as he peeled off his protective gear and laid it over the nearest kitchen chair. His shoulders slumped at the sight of the pile of dishes still soaking in the sink from the night before. He guessed he should have expected it, since the man was now a fading shadow of his former self who rarely stepped foot outside of the basement.

He made his careful way down the narrow tread of the cellar steps, his nose wrinkling as he reached the bottom. He wondered how long it would be before one of the few remaining neighbors complained about the smell. He suspected they'd lynch him if they discovered the truth of what he was harboring.

"You know, they think that _birds_ might be spreading the infection now," he called as spied the waiting man. "Do you think we're gonna have to have netting overhead as well?"

When there was no answer he just paused and sighed, trying to let the tension go. "When I was a child we used to have a cat that was always killing birds. It used to drive us crazy at the time... I really miss cats," he added wistfully.

Dean finally turned to him. "I never thought I'd say this, but I actually miss dogs..." Dean replied in a husk of a voice. "Sammy loved dogs."

George had no answer for that, so instead finished applying a CDC-approved brand of anti-infection cleanser to his hands. He winced; it always stung like a bitch if you had even the slightest scratch, but it was a million times better than the alternative that was even now doing its damnedest to sweep away civilization.

It was only then that he noticed that Dean was matching him with the motion; except that Dean was rubbing his hand over and over an angry-looking, red bite mark on his wrist.

They both seemed to simultaneously stop and catch eye-contact.

"Sam?" the question was out of George's mouth before he could think about it, because the answer was obvious. As ever, he kept his gaze studiously averted from the large, shambling creature chained to the rear wall of the basement.

"Yeah," choked Dean through a fake laugh. "I always said that kid would be the death of me."

"I'm sorry."

They stood in long silence. Dean reached to one side and produced a pearl-handled gun, which he held out, butt-first to George with a pleading expression.

Too stunned to answer, George just backed away, shaking his head.

Dean placed the gun in George's hand, then lifted his arm until the barrel was pointing at his own head.

"Please," whispered Dean. "I'm too weak to be able to leave him, but I can't stay like... _this_."

"It's not weak to love someone," George croaked, still convulsively shaking his head, "otherwise we'd all be no better than those things out there."

Tears flooded down his face. He couldn't. He just couldn't. He still hadn't got over the loss of his family, let alone the agonizing guilt he felt about Barbra. "I can't. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, there's just been too much death."

"I thought we were friends," growled Dean.

"I like you too much already," said George, his voice clipped in anger, "but maybe not enough to make me want to put myself through this again." He tried not to look back as he made his weary way up the stairs. Before he closed the cellar door he heard Dean speak in a voice bright with false bravado.

"I guess it's back to just you and me, Sammy. Same as always."

George stumbled to the front door; despite the inherent danger he needed fresh air.

He stepped out into the heavily-fenced yard and raised his eyes to the heavens. Falling to his knees in a combination of shock and exhaustion, he prayed for salvation for the Winchesters.

He never even noticed the fluttering sound behind him, like a flock of birds coming home to roost.

~#~

Castiel glanced around the fenced enclosure, not recognizing the location, nor the identity of the young man lost in the depths of grief. The man's impassioned prayer, while fractured and confused, had been enough to alert Heaven. Castiel hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. In the end his impatience won out; he might be several millennia old, but he burned with a keen urgency to find the Winchesters again.

"George?"

The young man jolted, and a look of terror flashed across his face, as Castiel called him gently by name again.

"I heard your call. Sam and Dean are here?"

George nodded, his eyes widening. Sometimes, Castiel noted, people seemed to have an innate sense that there was something otherworldly about him. With a trembling finger, George pointed to the house. "The basement," he added, his voice cracking. Wiping his eyes with the crook of his arm, George turned away.

Castiel set off for the house.

~#~

As he made his way down the narrow, creaking steps into the bowels of the house, Castiel realized that his relief at finding the Winchesters was going to be all too short-lived. Even from a distance he could tell there was something wrong with them.

They looked up at him, cocking their heads in a vile parody of his own mannerism. With their gaunt faces and rotting flesh there was really very little left of the men he knew. But, when he looked into their clouded eyes, he was sure there was still a small spark of the Sam and Dean he used to know in there somewhere. Somehow, that just made him want to weep all the more.

They started to shuffle towards him and Castiel knew he didn't have long. Sam looked too far gone to understand words, so he concentrated his attention on Dean.

"Dean," he called softly. "Dean, I can try to bring you and Sam back to all this... chaos. Or... or I can set you free and maybe one day we'll be allowed to meet again... on the other side. What do you want me to do?"

His concern was that he was pulling the brothers back into a life that brought them nothing but hardship and pain of a world rapidly, inexorably, sliding into destruction. But he knew that together they were an unstoppable force. His worry was that he might only have enough power to resurrect one of them. If he was restoring anyone there was no way he'd contemplate it _not_ being Dean, but Dean without Sam wasn't Dean at all. He'd already made a mess of retrieving a soulless Sam in the past, what if he was just repeating the same mistake?

He gazed at the friend he adored more than any other of his Father's creations. Maybe even as much as he worshiped his Father Himself, he realized with a prickle of fear down his spine at the blasphemous thought. _I want to be where you are_ , he thought. _What if they won't let me be with you? If I make the wrong decision,_ **_you_** _might not let me be with you._

He almost whined aloud in his despair _, I'm a soldier of the Lord, point me in the right direction and I'll rain down the wrath of God. But I'm not made for_ **_this_**. _What would Dean do?_

As if in answer to the unspoken question, Dean shuffled forward, placing himself just ahead of, and in front of, Sam. Castiel laughed humorlessly that even as one of the walking dead the man instinctively protected his younger brother.

Castiel rolled his shoulders, stretched out his wings to their fullest extent, and made his decision...

**THE END**

**_"Only the dead have seen the end of war" - George Santayana_ **

(;,;)

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to the Ficwise writing group.


End file.
